Three years ago, I believed my husband Anthony had drowned in a storm. I grieved deeply, even losing
our unborn child, and the ocean became my greatest fear. Determined to face it, I took a solo beach trip.
That morning, I saw him—alive, laughing, holding hands with a woman and a little girl. When I called his name, he said he was “Drake” and didn’t
know me. Later, the woman, Kaitlyn, visited my hotel, explaining he’d washed ashore with no memory, and they’d built a life together.
I met him again, showing old photos and our ultrasound, but his feelings were for Kaitlyn and her daughter.
Their home radiated warmth and love—a family I no longer belonged to. My heart broke, but I knew I couldn’t take him from them.
I told him the man I loved had died three years ago and that he should stay where his heart belonged. Walking away,
I realized I was saying goodbye for real. For the first time since the storm, I could breathe. It was my turn to start over.
